


can't shake loose [from what you do]

by onefootonego (startingXI)



Series: ex animo [1]
Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Gen, TW: Blood, TW: Violence, a vaguely historical au, allusion to rape and other terrible acts of violence, further warnings in the authors note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 14:54:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17983247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startingXI/pseuds/onefootonego
Summary: “poaching.” the man asserts, and maggie knows the self-satisfied, self-confident and assured tone he speaks with, so sure of himself as he is “no doubt.”there is a beat and then“i doubt.” the lady says, and maggie can hear the man shift uncomfortably behind her. the lady takes another breath and seems to settle on something “you both can take your leave for the night. please send urgently for doctor danvers. i will take care of this stranger until she arrives.”





	can't shake loose [from what you do]

**Author's Note:**

> alright y'all - i bring to you many warnings about this fic. i wasn't sure how to tag it, so i threw the big warnings there and figured i would explain further here. there are allusions to past acts of sexual violence, as well as other past acts of violence. none of the violence or otherwise is between maggie and lucy. as a whole, i recommend strong caution when reading this fic, it is not light and happy. it focuses on the recovery from terrible fuckin events.

beneath maggie’s bare feet the untamed trail she follows through the thickening woods feels a mercy compared to those injuries of her not so distant past. still there lingers dried blood underneath her nails. still to sit a series of rippling bruises that curl around her neck. yet they are lost to the ever-growing shadows of the forest. the moon is sitting higher in the sky by the minute and the unadulterated fear that set maggie onto this path is waning, loosening its hold as exhaustion threatens to take its place. she can feel weariness seeping into her bones with the cold. every step is slower than the last, and in between her shattered breaths, maggie is sure she can still hear, carried on the wind, howling of the dogs. it is not their teeth she fears the most, but the cruel hands of their masters. she would take the gnashing of fangs against her skin over the mere sight of the wicked smiles their masters bring. 

it is as sight maggie has seen more times than she can count – wicked smiles followed by violent acts. 

she stumbles, hand reaching out and pressing into the biting bark of a tree. pinpricks of pain go unnoticed in the subfreezing temperatures, but maggie steals a moment of respite. on shaking legs she stands, her vision swimming before her. stock still like this, the growing silence of the forest feels like a trick, an illusion. maggie cannot, will not, trust the absence of howling beasts from a pursuit. closing her eyes for the briefest of moments, maggie finds herself speaking to death. words not murmured aloud for she has no breath, but rather, thoughts chasing in her head. a plea for her life to be taken by the darkest night and not by the men who hunt her. expecting, and receiving, no answer, maggie knows she must press on. 

her eyes flutter open and maggie peels her hand away from the tree, fresh blood apparent against the dirt. gasping for air from burning lungs, maggie wills herself on. if only to find a river to drown in. maggie does not carry the will to die, rather the aching need to end her suffering. too long has it gone on, too much has she had forced upon her. 

no more. 

it was this train of thought that brought her to these woods in the first place. the wild, and endlessly unfamiliar expanse of wilderness that seemed the perfect place to run and hide and – well, that was in the daylight hours. now, where night has fallen and her body is weakening, the woods seem like the perfect place to die and be forgotten. her corpse would have no value to the men that chase her. death would, in some way, be a victory.

freedom. 

yet maggie knows death would find her all the easier if she just collapsed into a heap like her body is so eagerly demanding. it would be easy to simply keel over into the brush. to let the cold night claim her, let a deep sleep lure her away from this life and on to the next. except maggie keeps moving, keeps pushing, despite how little she can feel in her legs any more. even her hands and the fresh wounds she carries there seem to – 

“halt.” 

the single word jolts maggie away from her thoughts and fully into the present. she stands, one hand curling around the thin life of a sapling with fear striking deep and instantaneously into the pit of her stomach. it spreads rapidly, a spiders web of terror, weaving through maggies veins, capturing her, stilling her. she is rooted to the spot, her breathing collapsed into short, sharp pants that spike through her chest. she dares not look in the direction of the voice, instead, trying to clock the moonlit undergrowth, trying to find a channel of escape. so caught up in her fear-tinged desperation, it goes missed by maggie that there are no dogs snapping at her ankles. it is lost on her that in fact, there are no dogs anywhere. it was hills back now that the masters of the dogs realised the territory maggie had fled in to. 

this all goes lost on maggie, who is standing, trembling, waiting for rope to be thrown around her. waiting for shackles and chains and abuse to be hurled her way. 

except – 

“you’re either desperate or a fool for trespassing onto these lands.” 

maggie’s heart sinks and a whimper escapes her throat. hot tears sting at her eyes egged on a cold wind that slices through her thin layers. she dares not speak, despite the swarm of apologies rising in her throat. maggie long ago learned that speaking often only lead to further punishment. although silence brought her to a similar fate often enough to leave her quaking where she stands, a potent mix of exhaustion and fear taking their toll. 

she can hear a sword unsheathing and a muted whimper of terror escapes maggie before she can begin to try and stop it. whether or not the stranger hears her fear changes not what happens next. the stranger emerging from their hide amongst the trees and covering the distance to maggie in mere seconds. if ever there was going to be a chance to run and escape, that moment was past maggie now. there was the tip of a sword pressing into the soft skin of her throat and she slams her eyes shut because the blade is sharp and her skin is thin. maggie grips with two hands now, at the thin sapling, the last dregs of strength going to not collapsing in a heap, dare the blade slip against her skin in the process. 

“are you a poacher then?” the stranger demands, and closer now maggie understands the voice is male, and the cloaked and hooded man stands a foot taller than her at least and make quakes. 

abject terror renders her wordless, her head ducked down in submission. maggie isn’t sure how any man can mistake her for a poacher when she possesses not even shoes, let alone a bow and arrow. she carries no string of rabbits slung across her back waiting to be skinned and cooked. the thought of meat though, of a proper meal, it is a thought maggie is carried on until there is a soft pressing of the blade into neck “i asked you a question.” the man reminds “or are you voiceless?”

maggie shakes her head, she may have the ability to produce words, but right now between the chill and her own fear she is near incapacitation. 

“i think,” the man says “we will take you to the lady of the house and let her decide what to do with you.

no. 

less often, but maggie has known the cruelty of women. the dropping of the mans sword from her throat gives maggie her only chance at escape. it is a half chance, considering the man's height and build, a visible shape beneath the fitting of his cloak. maggie stumbles back, her feet tripping over themselves as she turns and sets her sights on, 

on anything. 

the forest is a smear of shadows now. rare are patches of moonlight, and the increased darkness makes maggies escape all the more difficult. compounding in this is her fear, her exhaustion, her cold-weary body. she takes maybe three steps before a gloved hand curls around her wrist, jerking her backwards “no, you don’t.” the voice growls and maggie finds herself jerked backwards. 

it’s more than she can take. 

her legs give way and her knees are slamming into the frozen dirt, sending spikes of pain through her numbness. maggie’s head drops and she bites her lip, hard, desperate to swallow her terror. she knows, of course, that men often like the sounds of her fear. it serves to spur them on, encourages their cruelty. the grip on her wrist does not relent and instead, that arm is wrenched behind maggie, painfully so. the tears, brought on by cold and fear, are released by pain. they roll down maggie’s cheeks, carving tracks in the dirt and dust and blood there. she cannot help it. 

this is what she was hoping to avoid all along and yet she is caught. 

she is caught and too weak to stop whatever is going to happen next. 

of course, what happens next is all too familiar for maggie. rough rope binds her hands behind her back and roughly she is pulled to her feet. at least it is not a rope around her neck, or something hard and made of steel. although she supposes that such permanent restraints will no doubt be employed by the so-called lady of the house. 

“walk.” the man barks, and maggie less walks, and more stumbles forward. 

the man has a grip on the rope binding her hands and it seems only that will serve to keep her upright. the holding there makes her shoulders sing with pain, but when she tries to twist into a more comfortable position, all she receives is a sharp tug on the rope to serve as a harsh reminder of her position. 

guided by the stranger, maggie finds a path underneath her feet. the earth is more worn, softer. she can feel the indentations of horses tracks having recently churned the earth. she wonders if this man will tie her behind the horse, it’s happened to others maggie knew. dragged along with no chance of respite until their bodies are bruised and broken, rendered unable to escape the brutality of whatever was planned next for them. 

yet no horse becomes visible. instead, maggie follows the path as she is bid, wholly unsure how she is still standing now. perhaps it is fear, she desperately does not want the man to decide she is not worth the trouble and simply leave her for the wolves, bound and helpless. this too she has heard rumours of happening to those who were deemed too weak, too broken, too used. 

the path bends left in a wide, arching way and maggie notices the trees beginning to thin. more moonlight streams between the branches and leaves and serve to highlight the path ahead. the path eventually bleeds from the forest, onto a gently rolling grassy stretch. what catches maggies attention is not the soft feel of grass underneath her feet, 

but the enormity of the manor house square in the centre of the property. 

three stories made of strong stone and covered in ivy, pinpricks of light illuminate windows here and there. maggie ducks her head and looks away – she has long since come to understand that the size of the house matters little when the people inside residences big and small are so easily consumed by their own cruelty. in looking away she catches sight of what must be stables at the rear of the property to the left. then to the right sprawls gardens and manicured hedges. 

wealthy, maggie decides. wealthier perhaps than most others maggie has found herself property of, be it for a night or sometimes longer. she wonders if the lady of the house will have heard about her escape. the very thought weakens maggies knees and she stumbles forward, kept up only by a hand curling around her upper arm. maggie knows if the lady has heard of the circumstances behind maggie’s escape, there is no doubt authorities will be summoned. 

the blood on maggies face and embedded under her fingernails is not just her own. 

no. 

the closer maggie is lead to the building, the more she understands where she is being lead. there is a set of stairs leading down, before stopping at a thick wooden door. the prospect of managing stairs scares maggie more than she has the ability to describe, she is sure her legs will not support her and the man, the stranger, 

well, 

he lets her fall. 

maggie makes it two steps, but on the third and final she finds her legs unable to handle the strain. for the second time since capture maggie finds her knees slamming to the ground, yet under her now is solid stone. her knees scream in pain and the tears that have not yet stopped falling are spurred on by the agony of being unable to catch herself. 

the stranger steps forward, past maggie, and raps on the door sharply three times. 

maggie struggles to her knees, to take gasping breaths and try to take a hold of her pain. she has suffered worse than this, but in the present, her past suffering feels irrelevant. the door swings open after what feels like long seconds a soft gasp from the person on the other side makes it clear maggie has been seen. 

“get the lady.” the man orders, stepping back and hauling maggie up by her binds “caught this trespasser in the woods.” 

dragged into the manor, maggie is relieved that at least it is warmer in her. even if the stones are cold beneath her and flickering candle-light casts everything into dancing shadows. they who opened the door is a woman, maggie sees, even as she keeps her head ducked. dressed in the attire of a cook, maggie wonders how close to the kitchens she is. her mind wanders, caught on thoughts of a fire, of warm food, of dry clothes. 

such luxuries will not be afforded to her, she is sure. after all, she is nought but a trespasser. 

“she is hardly a trespasser,” the woman states “no shoes. no tools to hunt with.” 

“i didn’t ask your opinion.” the man says “go get the lady. we will be in the kitchen.” 

the woman ducks her head once and turns away, her gaze dragging over maggie’s trembling form. she tuts once and continues to do as she is bid. this leaves maggie alone with the man once more and she is pushed and dragged into the expanse of a kitchen. the space is warmer still, and it’s easy for maggie to catch sight of the roaring fire alight in the hearth. in this room there are still people, people whose conversations drop when they catch sight of maggie. the man pays them little mind “out.” he says “all of you. now.” 

maggie is lead to a stool some distance from the fire and shoved onto it. 

it is a small mercy, saved from having to kneel on the unforgiving stone floor. 

behind her, maggie hears the sound of a cloak being unclasped and pooling onto the table behind her. maggie hazards leaning back, letting her arms rest against the edge and pressing weight into her arms. this is, maggie thinks, the only way she can stay sitting upright. the man makes no noise, no sound of disapproval at her action. instead, he seems to be focusing on removing those outer layers. 

sitting here, maggie’s head hangs. her tears are drying but the fear and pain that encouraged them still threaten to consume maggie whole. she wonders about the lady of this house. she wonders what new torture will be brought upon her. perhaps her fate will be a locking away in some cellar until the morning, where the proper authorities can be procured. maggie does not doubt that the capturing of a murderer would bring good and welcome light onto the lady, and lord, of the house. she wonders further if instead of locking her away, they will find some terrible use for her. after all, the night is young and plenty of lords choose woman other than their wives to seek pleasure from. such acts rarely involve pleasure for the other woman, if maggie’s experiences are anything to go by. 

the sound of approaching footsteps bring maggie sharply out of her thoughts and fear is reignited inside her. it leaves maggies legs shaking and her hands twisting together behind her back. she keeps her head down, her gaze fixed on the floor as the door to the kitchen swings open with a muted creak. two people enter, one of whom must be the lady. 

silence reigns. 

maggie can feel all sets of eyes on her, and there is a beat before the man responsible for maggie’s capture clears his throat and speaks “m’lady,” he says “i was out checking the snares when i caught sight of this one.” his hand curls into the scruff of maggie’s neck, his fingers curling into her unkempt hair and wrenches. 

the action brings forth a pained gasp that spills from maggies lips before she can stop herself. this harsh action gives maggie her first view of the lady. she is, 

not what maggie expected. perhaps nearer maggies own height, dressed down for the evening. she is watching the happenings unfold before her with a blank expression. she gives nothing away except, 

well, 

maggie catches sight of a muted frown tugging quickly at the corners of the lady’s lips. the gesture tells maggie nothing and her thoughts are cut through as the man speaks again. 

“poaching.” the man asserts, and maggie knows the self-satisfied, self-confident and assured tone he speaks with, so sure of himself is he “no doubt.” 

there is a beat and then 

“i doubt.” the lady says, and maggie can hear the man shift uncomfortably behind her. the lady takes another breath and seems to settle on something “you both can take your leave for the night. please send urgently for doctor danvers. i will take care of this stranger until she arrives.” 

take care is a daunting and ambiguous phrase for maggie, not to mention the impending arrival of a doctor makes maggie shiver violently. perhaps that was how this lady derived her pleasure. the thought serves to bring little comfort when she is still bound and, in a room, full of sharp knives and other tools of displeasure. in fact, the only comfort that comes is when the man who caught her, releases his tight grip on her hair. maggie has not the strength to hold her head up, and convention says she should not look at those above her rank directly anyway. so she sits, leaning back against the table and still breathing hard, and wholly unsure of what fate the lady has in store for her. 

at first, the lady does not move. she does not speak or do anything whilst the cook and the strange man are still in the room “oh, see to it that i am not disturbed.” 

maggie shivers, her fingers curling into themselves. that sentence is one that maggie has heard often and often enough that she has an inkling of what will happen next. it serves to do nothing but deepen her terror and will her to be as compliant as possible, no matter how unsavoury the lady’s plans for her may be. 

the deep shutting of the door through which maggie enters makes her jump and the lady’s change goes unmissed. there is a softening to her stance, to the broadness of her shoulders. she takes a careful step towards maggie, oh so aware of how maggie trembles before her. maggie wants to apologise, but she knows that speaking oft brings harsher punishment than silence. although for some, it does not matter the sound maggie makes, they will hurt and punish all the same. she wonders if the lady is like that. 

“i don’t think you are a poacher.” the lady says, her voice soft and measured. 

maggie says nothing. 

the lady steps sideways and out of maggie’s sight, which as an action scares maggie more than anything else. for maggie knows she is sitting at the edge of at a great table more often than not used for the preparation of food. she can imagine the array of knives and such which rest behind her, out of sight and yet immediately more available to the lady. what maggie does not expect is for the lady’s hand to come and rest on her shoulder. the touch is feather light, barely there at all, but still the action startles maggie more than she can control. she jumps, nearly sliding off the stool without her hands to stabilise her. 

yet it is the lady who brings a hand to maggie’s side “easy,” the lady murmurs “i’m not going to hurt you.” 

words maggie cannot believe. 

yet she stills, freezing where she sits as the lady’s warm hand curls against her stomach “i want to get these ropes off of you.” she explains “but my master huntsman has a way with rope, i may have to use a knife.” 

maggie says nothing, she does not breathe, she does not move. she barely even blinks.

the hand leaves her side and maggie strains to keep herself right as the lady’s fingers come to the tight, rough knots around her wrists. there is a tut of disapproval from the lady and maggie fights to keep still, to not move, to be obedient. she can feel the lady’s fingers working the rope and it seems like she will be unable to free maggie’s wrists, but finally, there is a release of pressure and rush of blood through new chaffed cuts and bruises swells. the rope falls to the floor with a soft sound and the lady rocks back onto her heels “there.” she says “that must feel better.” 

maggie can’t help but nod, because it does. she wiggles her fingers, open and closes them into gentle fists. maggie makes an attempt to roll her wrists but the sparks of pain that ignite when she tries to do that is more than enough to stop that motion. instead, maggie lets her arms hang by her side. as much as she wants to fold them into her lap it may be taken as a sign of fighting back or trying to protect herself against whatever it is the lady wants from her. 

although what the lady wants and what maggie expects are two different things entirely. 

“what’s your name?” the lady asks, her words soft, and maggie is so unprepared for the question that she turns to look at the lady in surprise. first glimpse shows her that the lady seems genuine, yet in the same breath, it is an action that maggie immediately regrets taking. it’s simply that she cannot remember the last time someone asked for her name with any look of sincerity in their eyes. she braces, maggie braces and she waits for the back of a hand against her cheek or a violent tug in her hair accompanied by the reminder that she is _less than_. 

maggie drops her gaze to the stone floor, waiting for the pain that never comes. instead, the lady’s soft words break the silence instead of the echoing crack of a slap “i will not hurt you.” the lady reiterates, “no one here will hurt you.” she says, and then she takes a breath “my name is lucy.” she breathes. 

lucy, the name sits in maggie’s brain but the reality of how this situation is unfolding leaves maggie out of her depth. she does not trust lucy’s kindness. she does not trust that it is genuine, nor that it will last. past experience has taught maggie that even kindness can be a weapon used against her. she is still trembling where she sits, and it takes all her courage to force out in a half breath “maggie, m’lady.” she ducks her head and holds her breath, she waits for some stern reminder that she does not even deserve a name, she waits for a switch to be flipped in lucy and for cruelty to bubble forth. 

it does not happen. 

lucy, still knelt down to maggie’s level, still refusing to touch the obviously petrified woman, speaks instead “maggie,” she repeats “that is a good name.” 

maggie is not so sure, but she nods anyway. her head is spinning from the turn of events and from the exhaustion still attempting to lay claim to her. 

“i’m sorry for trespassing.” maggie exhales “i didn’t mean to, i-“ she stumbles over her words “i didn’t know, i promise.”  
“you are welcome here.” lucy says, as maggie’s rushed apology finally ends and her head once again drops “you are welcome here maggie.” 

it does not make sense to maggie, she doesn’t understand this woman's kindness. 

it seems like lucy debates for a moment before “i would like to take you upstairs.” lucy says “to a warmer room. to a bath and clean clothes.” a pause, a careful hesitation and then “if you would rather stay down here, that can be arranged, but you have wounds that should be tended to.” 

those actions, of all those available to lucy, make the least sense to maggie. she keeps waiting for the switch, for lucy turn to cruel and cold. except for every time maggie braces for pain or punishment, lucy makes no move to even touch her. she seems endlessly content to sit and wait and coax maggie into understanding that her words hold nought but truth in their weight. 

the thought of a bath though, of warm water and clean skin. it’s a luxury maggie has not had for many weeks now. more often than not it is a bucket of ice-cold water pulled from a stream, dumped over her with little warning. the lure and temptation of a warm bath is more than maggie can stand, despite her fear, and she nods once, quickly, tentatively, before the offer can be rescinded. 

“i’m afraid,” lucy says “there are many stairs in this place. do you think you can manage them?” 

maggie isn’t sure she can manage one stair, let alone any number that can be described as many. despite this, she nods and she braces herself to stand. the motion comes disjointedly and despite the speed of her action, maggie finds herself swaying where she stands. the room seems to dance around her and she has the strangest sensation of stumbling and falling without moving anywhere at all. soft hands come to maggie’s sides, a warm body slides into the space behind her “easy,” comes lucy voice “easy, i will not let you fall.” 

lucy touch lasts only as long as it must until maggie is seated and steady on the stool once again. only when she is convinced that maggie will not fall, does lucy step back. maggie expects harsh words or violent actions, but again, the lady lucy surprises “you’re nearly frozen.” she says “you must be starving, thirsty.” 

now that lucy says it, maggie is reminded how long it has been since she was last given a substantial meal in place of table scraps. 

lucy does not speak next, instead, she moves around the room with practised ease. there is the opening and closing of cupboards, the sound of plate or bowl being set onto a wooden counter. maggie’s head is spinning and she finds the noises around her blurring into a haze as she closes her eyes. 

she is exhausted. 

“it is not much,” lucy says, breaking maggie’s half sleep and pulling her back to the moment. maggie’s spine straightens and she struggles for a proper sitting position “relax,” lucy urges “please,” and her voice seems to break then “you will not be punished for your state.” she says “you will not be punished for anything.” 

maggie stills and lucy continues on. 

“i have some bread and cheese and meat. there was stew for dinner but i am afraid that may take too much of a toll on your stomach right now.” a plate is pressed into maggies lap and maggie’s eyes nearly pop out of her head at the sight of a crusty roll and more meat and cheese than she’s been allowed in years. 

she looks from the plate, to lucy and then back down at the plate. 

“it’s yours.” lucy says “this too,” and she places a mug of water onto the table next to maggie “it would help you to drink it.” 

maggie sits, frozen where she is, unable to process being given such things. 

lucy seems to sense this and she steps back “i will get your bath seen to.” she says “take your time with the food and drink, and you will not be disturbed.” she swallows hard “the door will not be locked,” she adds “so you can leave if you like, but the night promises to be cold and i,” she falters “you need more layers than that to survive.”

maggie is not sure she could flee even if she wants to, but she nods all the same, sitting motionless until lucy steps back, and turns to leave the room. the door closes and maggie feels the weight of silence settling around her. the current happenings make little sense, that much maggie understands. perhaps it is the exhaustion, perhaps it is the fear, perhaps it is something else entirely, but the kindnesses being shown to her do not make sense. not in comparison to the violence of her recent past. 

there is a certain dread that twists in maggie’s stomach as she realises upon lucy coming to understand the truth of who she is, and what she’s done, this series of kindnesses will certainly end. 

except, a small part of maggie argues, lucy did not flinch away from the blood and dirt maggie is covered in. she did not hold her nose or make comments, she treated maggie, well, she treated maggie like a person. which leaves maggie feeling baffled and unsure of her standing in this house. 

gingerly, maggie reaches out with a hand and picks up a slice of cured ham. it’s salty on her tongue, but delicious and overwhelming. it takes all of maggie’s control not to eat faster. instead she works slowly through the plate of meat and cheese and bread, pausing for small sips of water. she thirsts for more, but maggie remembers times when she has drunk too much, too fast and found punishment when her stomach twisted. she takes care now, small sips often. she works through the food provided with much the same care, keenly aware that such a meal may not be presented to her again in the near, or distant future. 

maggie scans the kitchen and sees a basin of water and something probably related to soap. the empty plate in her lap, and mug by her side seem to catch all of her attention and maggie, slowly, gingerly stands. she has not forgotten what happened the last time she conducted such an endeavour. however, this time around, maggie stands with one hand braced on the table. the other holds the plate close to her side and she takes a wavering breath, taking stock of herself. in the relative heat of the kitchen, maggie finds herself aware of her feet and her legs. as well, there’s a not unpleasant tingling sensation that lingers in her toes and in the tips of her fingers. the deep bruising around maggie’s neck is more pronounced than it was. although perhaps that is simply the effect that attempting to eat and drink when the swelling has gone deep into her throat. even the bread, which was soft and not more than a few hours old, felt nearly too much to eat against the swelling in her throat. 

breathing too comes easier now. there is still a dull stabbing sensation but less now does maggie feel like she is going to be rendered unable to breathe from the pain from it. the world stays firmly righted and maggie takes ginger steps across the stone floor of the kitchen. she moves slowly, for fear of her still protesting body deciding that such movement is beyond current capacities. in contrast, however maggie is spurred on by the need to clean her plate and mug. in every house and hell-hole she has found herself in before, when given dishes, it was always tasked upon her to clean them. a sign of gratitude. a sign of gratefulness for being allowed to continue to exist. 

violent memories circle the back of maggie’s mind and she finds it nearly impossible not to get lost in them. even as she reaches the basin and places gently, the plate and mug into the lukewarm water. the small journey from table to wall has left maggie breathless and gripping at the side of the basin with a white-knuckle grip. with her eyes closed, it is easier still for the memories to press themselves against the back of maggie’s eyelids. of course, this night, her thoughts surround that of the man whose life she took. it is not that part of his existence she thinks of though. 

no. 

she thinks of the way he first looked at her, tethered as she was and unable to escape. there was a sadistic fire in his eyes that scared maggie. that awoken an instinct deep within her that harkened, again and again, 

that either he would die that night, 

or it would be her life that ended.

plunging her hands into the lukewarm water, maggie tries to use the actions of cleaning as a way to distract, but she finds even that of little help. the slick of water brings forth the memories of her hands, slick with the blood of that man and her breath catches in her chest once more. she loses hold on where she is, and how her present location is not the same place where that man met his end. 

the opening of the kitchen door does not register with maggie, nor does lucy’s soft voice cutting through the silence. she does not hear footsteps moving across the kitchen, only finally, suddenly, realising that someone else is in the room when a hand flutters against her elbow. 

“maggie,” the voice says, and maggie startles.

she startles hard and fast and the bones of her arm slam into the curled lip of the basin. it leaves maggie gasping, spinning around and ducking her head trembling. the man from her memories and the form in front of her blur for long, long seconds and maggie is left gasping and pressing herself back against the sink. she knows her instincts are to become small, to take up as little space as possible and move where bid and yet – 

“maggie,” the same gently and patient voice cuts through her panic “maggie, it’s lucy.” 

“m’lady.” maggie gasps, and her gaze is so fixated on the floor that she misses lucy’s wince at the title. 

“just lucy,” lucy says “you can call me lucy.” she soothes, hesitant to take a step back should maggie’s strength fail her. 

instead, lucy steps to the side, so maggie has more space and is less blocked in. 

maggie blinks quickly and the kitchen swims into focus in front of her. 

lucy. the lady of the house. lucy. lucy who brought her food and water. 

lucy.

maggie dares to look up, to steal a glimpse of the expression settled on lucy’s face and what maggie sees is not what she expects. in place of any sign of anger or frustration, maggie reads what can only be fear or pain or concern or some unfamiliar blend of the three. lucy’s hands are wrapped around herself as if that is the only way to prevent herself from reaching out and touching an already on edge maggie. 

“it will be warmer in the bath.” lucy says “and please, don’t worry about the dishes, i will make sure they are seen to.” 

this woman makes no sense. not even a little bit. maggie has no frame of reference for continued acts of such kindness and hospitality and concern. she feels out of her element and yet where hours ago, or is it now a full day passed, maggie found her instincts screaming to run and escape and hide, here and now her instincts murmur nothing but hesitant trust. some part of maggie understands that lucy has given her no reason to be fearful. it is simply the rest of the world that has left maggie with such an impression. 

maggie releases her grip on the basin and lets her hands fall to her sides “i just,” she starts, fumbling over her words “you were so kind to –“ her voice is hoarse from the bruising and maggie stops trying to speak as she erupts into a fit of coughing. 

“oh,” lucy speaks in a rush, a realisation “no,” she says “i wasn’t,” she speaks in starts and stops, as if suddenly unsure “you’re not in trouble for trying to do the dishes.” she says, voice thick with emotions maggie cannot pin down right now “you need rest.” lucy all but implores “you have wounds that need tending to.” she adds, voice gentler still.

maggie’s breath catches in her chest at the honesty in lucy’s voice. it leaves her unsure, displaced from the reality she’s known and transplanted to some other world. for long seconds maggie half wonders if death has found her in the woods and this is all but a dream to ease her into the next realm. 

“i would like,” lucy says “if you want, to help you upstairs to the bath. it’s ready for you, you would have complete privacy. but, but if you needed assistance…” she trails off, the rest unspoken. 

maggie’s head is swimming with the choices laid out before her. words fail her, they are caught, trapped it seems both in her head and in her chest. all she is left able to do, it seems, is nod. she cannot, or perhaps it is will not, fight her more surface instincts any more. despite the abuse of her recent and more distant past, maggie has somehow found herself in the company of someone who, by all appearances wants nothing from her. it is a foreign concept to maggie, but between her exhaustion and her waning fear, she allows lucy to wrap an arm around her shoulders. 

the touch is accompanied by soft words “it’s just to keep you upright,” and there is a pain in lucy’s voice as if even insisting upon this much from maggie wounds her deeply in some way. 

emerging from the kitchen, maggie allows herself to be guided through the bowels of the manor house. there seem to be rooms every way maggie looks, and some have thin lines of light illuminating the frame of the door, while others remain darkened. yet past them all, maggie finds herself guided, until finally, they come the base of a narrow, stone staircase. 

“there is a rail,” lucy encourages “to your left.” 

and as described, maggie finds a polished wooden beam transfixed in some sturdy fashion into the wall. the wood is smooth to her touch, worn from hundreds of hands run along it as these stairs are ascended and descended. now, however, with maggie in the front and lucy just behind her, they are the only two. perhaps this is strategic. perhaps it is sheer chance. either way, maggie fights to keep her mind from drifting, focusing on the rhythm of putting one foot in front of the other. focusing on keeping a tight grip on the rail and not letting the ever-present exhaustion overwhelm her. 

at the landing, in a doorway, maggie finds the pain in her ribs sparking bright and brighter still. she moves her hand from the polished wood to the cool stone of the wall. turning and leaning into it, maggie’s eyes flutter closed. she breathes in short, sharp breaths as with ever inhalation the pain seems to smear itself across her ribs in bigger and bolder strokes than the last. her hands curl into fists and she keeps her eyes shut, as if that will block out everything else. 

“there is no hurry.” lucy insists, still standing somewhere to maggie’s left, a stair or two down with her hands out, ready if maggie’s legs fail her again “the bath will wait, don’t hurt yourself more.” 

maggie swallows a whimper, lucy’s words are so soft, so reassuring and kind. 

“please.” lucy says, taking a hesitant step closer to maggie, all but sagging against the stone wall. this time, it is her tone that catches maggie off guard, the soft plead laced with uncertainty “i don’t want you hurt further.” she says “a doctor is coming.” she says and maggie’s whole being stills, 

she had, of course, forgotten about the arrival of the doctor. 

she has seen doctors before and all she knows is that they are a cruel breed. they possess cold hands, unforgiving tools and little mercy. more often than not money is not changed hands, instead the doctor gains his payment from his subject instead of their master. maggie’s eyes stay fixed shut, but her body begins to tremble beyond her control. these are changes lucy sees at once and her mind takes agonising seconds to catch up with what maggie must be thinking about. she rushes to explain, to calm and soothe. 

“the doctor,” lucy says “she is a friend of mine. she’s a good person. she won’t hurt you. i promise.” 

she. 

a woman doctor is not a breed maggie has ever had any interaction with. yet. 

“she?” maggie breathes, turning her head and looking at lucy unsteadily. 

“she.” lucy nods “her name is alex.” lucy says “she’s a good doctor, a good friend. she can wrap your wounds and give you the best advice for recovering.” 

recovering. 

maggie blinks twice and then looks away again “i’ve seen,” she draws a wavering breath “other doctors. they, they were not like you describe your friend.” 

she’s not sure where this admission comes from, surely lucy cannot be all that interested except, 

“i have seen those doctors too.” lucy says darkly “they are vile men.” 

the venom in her voice startles maggie into standing, into bracing against the wall and looking over at lucy, swallowing a thousand questions and forcing herself to take a shallow breath “but you trust this doctor?” she asks, hesitant to even do so. 

“with my life.” lucy breathes “you may,” she says, pausing “you may find moving easier if you let me take some of your weight.” she offers. 

maggie debates for a moment, and then she nods “i’m not sure how much longer i can stand.” she murmurs.

“then i will help you.” lucy says, her voice just as soft as she finds herself on the landing with maggie “i will put my hand around your waist,” she explains, waiting for maggie’s nod before doing so. 

lucy’s arm, and the rest of lucy, maggie discovers, is warm and strong. she takes on maggie’s weight with ease and together they are able to cross the hallway to a far grander, far nicer staircase. this one is wooden, but that shift is lost on maggie as she leans more of herself into lucy’s grasp. the fabric of her clothes are soft beneath maggie’s skin, and maggie realises once again, how unafraid of the blood and mud lucy is. she keeps maggie close, moving up one step at a time. 

“i will bring you more food,” lucy says, from out of nowhere “for when you are done in the bath. you are,” her breath wavers but not from the exertion of practically carrying maggie up the stairs “you are practically nothing but bone.” she says, and maggie is caught on the deep sadness in her tone. 

following willingly now, maggie allows herself to be lead down a long hallway. this one, in stark contrast to that just outside the kitchen, is mostly covered in a red rug, so their footsteps are muffled. there are fewer doorways here, and more paintings, more weaponry. the paintings all seem to be of battles, real or otherwise, is lost on maggie. the swords on the walls, hung in swaths of flickering candlelight, are almost certainly real. 

of the other manor houses, maggie has glimpsed the inside of, their adornments were rarely so singularly focused. it does not cross her mind to ask the questions that come to mind, not when lucy is being so kind, so soft. higher up in the house, maggie finds the silence has more yield. their footsteps do not ring out, her breaths do not fill the space. nor does her gasp when she realises the room she has been lead to, 

must be lucy’s. 

the bed along the back wall in the centre is larger than maggie can really comprehend. there are dressers on either side of the nearest wall and to maggie’s right are curtains drawn across windows. 

“you will have the most privacy here.” lucy says “my bathroom, it has only one door, and i will make sure no one comes in without you knowing.” 

maggie can only nod. she is more vaguely aware of how, upon realising that she had been brought to lucy’s room, there was no icy spike of fear piercing her stomach. it is a moment that stands in stark contrast to the other times maggie has been lead or dragged or forced any number of far less comfortable locations. always then had her instincts told her that no good was to come from whatever dark corner of the world she was locked into. 

the bathroom itself is simple enough. a clawed tub stands a toilet and really nothing else. there is a chair, upon which candles are lit and their wicks glowing brightly. the room smells vaguely of something else, something that triggers a distant memory for maggie.

_she is a small child, running around and chasing her the strings of her mothers dress. the room they are in is small but comfortable enough. the fire burns in a hearth, but all the same a single lavender candle flickers by the collection of mirrors her mother uses for applying her make up. maggie stops, standing still with her fingers caught on the strings but her eyes transfixed on the dancing flame._

maggie blinks and she is back in the bathroom. lucy has let go of her now, has taken steps back. 

“take as long as you want.” she offers quietly “there is no rush.” 

“but your doctor friend,” maggie starts, but lucy shakes her head. 

“alex will wait.” she reassures, then “would you like help getting out of,” lucy pauses, trying to find a word that best describes the poor excuse for clothes that maggie has found herself “out of what you’re wearing,” she settles for “i can help.”

maggie stiffens and her breath is caught in her chest. 

“you don’t have to say yes.” lucy says, into maggie’s silence. 

maggie, unmoving, doesn’t say anything to that. she cannot imagine baring herself for lucy. there are scars, new and old; not to mention bruises and other wounds that maggie does not want to have to consider explaining. there is something worse too, something that sits on the flat of her shoulder. just the thought of exposing that to lucy, it leaves maggie shaking and silent. 

lucy acquiesces “i’ll be just outside,” she says “if you need anything. i am here to help you. if you don’t, just, just come out when you’re ready.” 

maggie nods once sharply and then watches as lucy moves back through the bathroom door. maggie watches, almost unbelieving as lucy pulls the door mostly shut. it is closed enough that maggie has the promised privacy, but if she were to call out, her words would not go unheard. 

for the first time in, 

weeks, 

months, 

maggie finds herself alone, free of tethers and chains. she stands for a moment, lost for what to do. she half expects lucy to come back in and insist on, 

something, 

anything, 

anything that would shatter this too good to be true situation. except lucy does not come back into the bathroom. no, maggie is left on her own in this great expanse of a bathroom. steam curls up from the bath and shadows dance along the wall where the candles catch and flicker. the temptation is too great, the lure of a steaming hot bath has maggie gritting her teeth and blinking back the pain as she tugs herself out of the pathetic excuse for a dress she had been given days ago. the same dress that is stained with her own bloody handprints. handprints of the man's blood as maggie haphazardly tugged it on over her head, as the truth of what she did strikes her. 

now, now the dress falls into a heap at her feet and maggie steps away from it. her arms wrap around her waist, bracing against the slight chill, but the bath is not far and it takes the remainder of maggies energy to raise herself into it. the water is steaming, almost too hot against her tender skin, but all the same maggie sinks into it. she can’t not, the pull is too strong. equally so, the bath is deep and maggie finds the water above the tips of her shoulders before she is settled on the bottom. for a moment maggie can do nothing more than lean back against the sturdy wall of the tub and simply, 

exist. 

she lets the heat seep into her bones and begin to loosen some of the tension away from where it has made a home in the rivets of maggie’s spine and the breadth of her shoulders. folded over the curled lip of the tub, sits a washcloth and maggie reaches for it slowly, hesitant to use it out of fear for ruining it. except lucy put it there and lucy has been so insistent that she wants to do nothing but help maggie. 

maggie dips the cloth under the water and brings up to her arm. using nothing but the weak force of her own touch and the water, maggie runs the cloth along her right arm. dirt and blood comes away not all at once but after repeated strokes. however, what is left behind makes maggie wish she had never attempted to clean herself. there is an unmistakable handprint bruised into her forearm, the colours bleeding from blacks and purples to sickly yellows along the edges. she submerges her arm again and looks away. she focuses her gaze on the doorway, not out of a desire to call lucy back, but borne of wonder that lucy has not simply re-entered. 

looking back own at herself through the water filling the tub, maggie knows that to be clean is to feel marginally better, despite what wounds will be revealed to her. so working slowly, working deliberately and making sure she gets the grit and grime away from under her nails and the creases of her hands, maggie cleans herself. it is not easy work and she takes little pleasure from seeing the full extent of her injuries, even though the clouding water. there are bruises and cuts. deep, long since healed scars and fresher ones across them. maggie has to close her eyes to squash the feeling of sick that consumes her as she runs the cloth over the brand on her shoulder. it is fresh, fresh in compared to other injuries and other pains. not as new as the handprints around her neck, but still, her body tells a story that maggie cannot even begin to find the words for. 

it is only when her body is clean, that maggie realises how badly she wants to wash her hair. so, lathering soap between her hands, she dips her head under the water level and stays there for a moment. there is a thundering silence in this space that brings maggie comfort. all she can hear is the pounding of her heart and warped sounds of the outside world. maggie pauses here as long as she can before her need for oxygen is too great. 

breaking the surface with a soft gasp, maggie brings her hands to her hair and works them through slowly. she takes her time, allowing herself the small pleasure of how good it feels to be unhurried in cleaning herself. preparing herself to submerge a second time, and so caught in her own head, the murmur of conversation in the room beyond goes missed by her. as maggie dunks herself under once again, it is lucy who speaks,

_“it’s terrible, alex.” she murmurs, her voice breaking “what she’s been through,” lucy shakes her head “the fact i got her into a bath feels like a miracle. she…” lucy trails off, unable to continue._

_“she’s here now.” alex says, bringing her hands to lucy’s shoulders and running them up and down slowly “we’ll look after her, keep her away from whatever past she’s had.”_

_lucy lets out a soft exhalation, stepping forward into alex’s embrace and –_

maggie breaks the surface once again and breaths in short pants. the heat from the bath lingers on, but there is a coolness to the temperature now that pushes maggie to eye the towel folded over the back of a second chair for her. standing slowly and shivering against the comparative cool of the room. stepping out of the tub is a nerve-wracking affair and maggie is relieved when both feet are firmly on the square mat on the floor. she towels off slowly, surprised at how soft the feel of the fabric is against her skin. 

folded too, are some clothes. not a dress as maggie expects, but pants and a long shirt. it’s a modesty she has not been afforded in a long time. of course, getting into the shirt, with her protesting ribs, takes an edge. tears spring to maggie’s eyes, but she grits her teeth and gets on with it. 

it is only when she is fully clothed and venturing towards the door that she hears voices. the first is lucys, but the second, 

well, 

the second must be the doctor. trepidation stirs itself awake and coils around her stomach, her chest. it is impossible to ignore her own fear. 

a doctor. 

even if it is a woman doctor, which maggie has never heard of before, the mere thought of being examined makes her want to run and hide. for maggie has been examined in the past and her skin crawls at the memory. she wills herself to be brave, but instead what drives her to bring a hand to the door is the need to be submissive. to not be punished for taking too long, or being too scared, or being disobedient. conditioned for so long that obedience will bring her the least amount of pain, maggie pulls the door towards her and steps out, into lucy’s bedroom. 

two people turn to look at her. the first is lucy, her gaze is soft and familiar. yet even as she surveys maggie, it is impossible to miss the moment the full extent of maggie’s injuries is realised by them. for lucy, her eyes go wide and her mouth is closed into a thin line. for the stranger, the doctor, something darkens behind her eyes and maggie glances down, away. 

“how do you feel?” lucy asks “do you want to sit down?” 

maggie would like to sleep if she’s being honest. yet she knows no such words will escape her. instead, she nods and follows lucy’s gesture to the edge of the bed. sitting here, with the doctor surveying her makes maggie nervous more than she can register. her mind is racing with a thousand things that have happened before and could happen again if the doctor so chooses. her fingers curl into the soft duvet and maggie exhales in a wavering breath. she glances between the two women again and feels every part of her melt into something yielding and submissive. 

she ducks her head and relaxes her grip and – 

“maggie,” lucy says gently from somewhere to her right “maggie, this is alex.” 

maggie does not look up. she can barely breathe at this moment. 

lucy keeps talking “if you want, she can take a look at some of the cuts to your hands and then,” she swallows hard “the bruising to your neck.” 

maggie ducks her head further “if that’s what you want.” she replies. 

lucy swallows a pained noise not nearly fast enough and she kneels down, entering maggie’s line of sight “it will only happen if you want it.” she says “it doesn’t matter what i want, or what alex wants.” she presses “okay?” 

maggie doesn’t believe her, even after everything that has transpired tonight, it cannot surmount the harsh reality of maggie’s not so distant past. why else would they let her get clean unless they had some intention of bedding her, of doing whatever it is that they want with her. better to give them access, allow to “do what you want.” she mumbles.

there’s a movement to maggie’s left and she expects it to be the doctor, stepping forward to stake her claim. instead, it is the doctor stepping back with a nod to lucy and a soft “i’ll be outside. fetch me there, or,” her gaze lingers with lucy “you’ll know where to find me otherwise.” 

lucy nods once and then, somehow, the doctor is leaving. 

alex. 

alex is leaving. 

lucy stays where she is, clear in maggie’s line of sight and unmoving for a few beats more. when she does move, it is to roll up the sleeve of her right arm. inch by inch the skin is exposed and maggie watches, unsure of what is about to happen. possibly a beating – she had known masters before who favoured this sort of slow build-up to their punishment. except that is not what happens, even as maggie finds herself preparing for pain, her breath catches as the fourth fold of the loose sleeve exposes something entirely unexpected. 

a brand. 

a brand sits clear as day on the soft skin of lucy’s forearm. it is a mark far more healed than maggie’s, but in the same breadth it is unmistakable for what it is. maggie looks from the brand, to lucy and then back down again. she has seen this mark before. she has seen this mark on girls who are passed from certain noble to certain noble. girls whose names maggie stopped hearing shortly thereafter. once they were marked, they disappeared into an echelon of society that maggie never found herself. whether this was for better or worse, maggie still hasn’t levelled with herself. she knows those who bore that brand, the mark that lucy is showing her now, it resigned them to terrible fates that were only whispered about in the dark. to see this mark on lucy, a lady, it makes little sense to maggie. 

perhaps this is some kind of trick. 

lucy keeps still, keeps her arm and its mark exposed for maggie to stare at. long seconds pass before she speaks, and when she does, her voice wavers 

“i was twenty.” lucy says “my father, he’s a general in the army. has been since i was a kid. it’s, it’s not an easy position to hold. he has the ear of many important people. except he’s, he’s, he’s, he lacks the social graces to make friends. not that he’s ever cared, he has his rank and his reputation, but little tact. but he made enemies fast, especially when the leadership above him was in unrest, and i was an easy target. to try and coerce him into a certain path of action.” 

lucy lets out a long exhale and looks away. 

“it was three months before i was brought home.” she says quietly before looking back at maggie “the longest three months of my life.” she says “i’m not,” she exhales shakily “i’m not saying i understand what you’ve gone through. but…” she trails off “i’m not asking you to trust me. you don’t know me. but i won’t hurt you. alex won’t hurt you.” 

maggie feels like she’s left gasping. of all the things she expected from lucy, this, this history, this past was certainly not amongst them. it leaves her reaching for the neck of her shirt and tugging it down. she has to twist on the bed in order to expose her own mark properly. her mark stands different from lucy’s, it is far cruder. while lucy’s exists to mark her as property, maggie was given hers as a moment of entertainment. she is aware when lucy sees her own brand because there’s a soft, wet gasp from the space where she is. maggie stills, fighting for her own breaths now. 

“three weeks ago.” she says hollowly, speaking to the opposite wall, but sure lucy can hear her “they were drunk. they thought it would be funny.” she pauses “they laughed,” she says “when they did it.” 

“maggie,” lucy breathes “maggie i’m sorry.” 

maggie shakes her head and lets go of the shirt. she turns back to face lucy “you didn’t do it.” she says. 

“and,” lucy starts “and your neck? was that the same…” she trails off. 

maggie shakes her head “a different man.” she says,

_a dead man_ , she thinks. 

“he was trying to kill me.” maggie says quietly “for fun. it got him off.” she says “he just kept trying.” she’s looking at the floor now, unable to look at lucy. maggie is bracing for the worst that is yet to come, the kindness that will be taken away once the truth of who she is, is exposed “and i,” she pauses, 

“it’s okay.” lucy murmurs “you don’t have to say.” 

“i do.” maggie presses “i do. you – everything tonight,” she swallows hard “you deserve to know.” 

“know what?” lucy asks gently, softly. 

long, unbearable seconds pass before maggie can speak the words “i-“ her hands are shaking “i killed him.” she admits. 

silence reigns and then, 

“good for you.” lucy says quietly. 

maggie’s head snaps up and she studies lucy, confused. she opens her mouth, closes it. she shakes her head. 

“what?” she asks. 

“good for you.” lucy repeats. 

maggie shakes her head “i don’t understand.” she pauses and then “i’m, that’s why i was running in the woods. i’m, they want me for murder. for murdering that man.” 

“i know.” lucy says “they came to the house this afternoon, warning me of the dangerous killer on the loose.” 

maggie blinks. 

“i don’t care what you did,” lucy says “you did it to survive. i guessed that’s who you were when my huntsman brought you in. i don’t care who you’ve killed, maggie.” lucy says “you are welcome here.” 

“i killed a man.” maggie repeats, maybe lucy just hasn’t understood. 

“and i wish i could have done the same to the men who tormented me for their pleasure.” lucy says “i, i’m not going to kick you out or turn you in. not for trying to survive. we both know what that man was doing to you.” she takes a breath, “if you ask me,” she says “he had it coming.” 

“i don’t understand.” maggie says quietly “i don’t…” she trails off, twisting her hands in her laps. 

lucy stands slowly, she reaches out for maggie’s hand. the action is half-done, giving room for maggie to back away, to not take her hand. except maggie does, she takes lucy’s hand. lucy looks at her, honest and open “you’re safe here.” she says softly “that’s what i mean. no one,” she pauses “no one is going to hurt you. no one is going to arrest you. no one will take you anywhere.” 

maggie shakes her head “i don’t, how, you can’t just say that.” 

“i can.” lucy blazes, filled with self-confidence “i’m not twenty any more. those men, those people in power. they fucked up when they took me. they,” she is shaking, but not with rage. she is shaking with a self-assuredness and it’s impossible for maggie not to listen, not to try and, 

well, 

try and trust her. 

lucy’s grip on maggie’s hand stays gentle “you’re safe here.” she says “i promise.” 

maggie believes her. 

***

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to come shout at me on tumblr - 4beit is where i'm at. 
> 
> i do intend for there to be more in this series and i would love to know y'alls thoughts. also, as ever, to everyone who kudos and comments on my fics - y'all are the real mvps. 
> 
> lastly, a final thanks to nerdsbianhokie who helped get this fic off the ground and encouraged me every step of the way. without you, i have no doubt this fic would not have come into existence.


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